


Five Times Jordan Tata Crushed on Rick Porcello and the One Time He Actually Did Something About It

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [9]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bitterness, Detroit Tigers, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Retirement, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-07
Updated: 2009-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Five times Jordan Tata crushed on Rick Porcello and the one time he actually did something about it, ’though this is more a Jordan Tata story, with some incidental Rick Porcello.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Jordan Tata Crushed on Rick Porcello and the One Time He Actually Did Something About It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [learnthemusic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/learnthemusic/gifts), [edgeoflovely](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=edgeoflovely).



> For [**learnthemusic**](http://learnthemusic.livejournal.com/)’s **5 Things/Times/etc.** meme request. Also, I’m fairly sure I can blame most of this on [**edgeoflovely**](http://edgeoflovely.livejournal.com/), so I will. She also wanted a “threeway” and she got it. In a manner of speaking. [**edgeoflovely**](http://edgeoflovely.livejournal.com/) told me to post this so if you find mistakes blame her.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

****

i.

Tata feels like part of him should hate Porcello for being _so fucking young_ and _that damn good_. Tata’s nearly ten years older than the kid-- okay, maybe a _slight_ exaggeration-- and he’s been around half of _that_ , and he’s not even half as good as this kid.

But he doesn’t hate Porcello. Mostly, he just kind of hates himself. Hates that he’s twenty-seven going on twenty-eight and he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with his fastball. Hates that he can’t seem to keep from getting injured or strait-jacketed by his own insecurities and fears.

Hates that he was once the top pitching prospect in the organization, and here’s this kid, this fucking _wunderkind_ who’s the darling of the organization now, who can do no wrong. Everything this fucking kid touches turns to gold and Tata abso-fucking-lutely hates it because it used to be him. He was never as hyped as Porcello is, but people used to talk about him once upon a time. People used to talk about him in the same tone they use when they talk about Porcello now.

It used to be him, and now it’s not.

-

Okay, maybe there’s one thing he hates about the wunderkind himself: he’s actually a really nice kid. He picks up the tab on the first meal they eat as a team, because he’s the one with the Major League contract. He doesn’t bitch and moan or try to beg off when one of the guys picks up the bill and hands it to him. Kid just grabs his wallet, fishes out his credit card and hands it off to the waiter. Feeding twenty-five hungry professional ballplayers isn’t exactly cheap, either.

Porcello also doesn’t complain when the more veteran of the guys-- the guys who’ve been in A-ball way too long and don’t have much of a career left, A.K.A. guys like Tata-- make him tote around a frilly, pink Disney princess backpack stuffed with energy drinks, bottled waters, packets of sunflower seeds, tin canisters of chew, and packs of gum. Porcello also doesn’t so much as make a peep when one of the vets takes to calling him “Princess,” on account of the pink backpack.

The kid is eager to make friends, and seems to want everyone to like him. Even Tata. Then again, he has no idea that Tata’s basically insane and hates him for reasons most people would cite as an example of why they _like_ the kid, but whatever. Anger and hate aren’t rational emotions.

Well. Neither is love, but that’s another story for another time.

  


**ii.**  


Tata gets married in Texas on a crisp January day.

He steps off the altar a married man, with the prettiest girl in all of Texas on his arm, and the only person he can think about is Porcello. Lauren looks like an angel with her blonde hair loose and wavy, dressed in a delicate gown of lace and silk, and all he can think about is some guy he plays baseball with. 

Porcello, naked and damp with sweat, shivering under him, Porcello with his pitchers’ calluses rasping on sensitive skin. A mouth-- soft, almost feminine but definitely not a woman’s-- pressed against his.

Lauren links her arm with his and leans into him, her skirts swishing, and pulls him back into the present. “Whaddaya wanna bet Uncle Jerry is already half in the bag?”

Tata scans the reception hall and spots Lauren’s Uncle Jerry, red-faced and listing to the side in his seat. “I’m not a betting man,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I think I’ll pass.”

His wife-- he can’t get over how _weird_ that sounds-- picks up a long, ivory-handled knife and cuts into the wedding cake. Their guests clap politely and camera flashes go off in their eyes. Lauren pauses briefly to smile and pose for the camera, ever the model, before digging her hand into the cake and smashing a handful of it into his face.

He grabs a handful of it himself, Porcello-- naked or otherwise-- momentarily forgotten, and does the same, pressing his fingers against her mouth, trying to push it past her lips. Lauren clamps her mouth shut, though, and he ends up shoving cake up her nose.

Everyone laughs and applauds, and the photographer snaps away. Lauren laughs and licks frosting off the tip of Tata’s nose, and he smears some of it on the back of her pretty dress by accident when he tries to hug her.

Tata licks a stripe of frosting off Lauren’s pale cheek and for a split second, he wonders what Porcello would look like, squirming under him, wonders what he tastes like. Lauren smiles and tilts her face up, and Tata presses a light, chaste kiss to her lips.

He keeps his eyes open. He wants to make sure it’s Lauren he sees.

  


**iii.**  


Tata’s never been much of a fan of pre-season baseball. The pace is almost always a little off-kilter. They’re finally playing games, thank God, but they still don’t mean anything and the adrenaline just isn’t there.

Plus, Tata’s always fighting three or four other guys for one spot in the Tigers’ bullpen, and he’s probably only third or fourth on the depth chart. 

By the end of February, Porcello’s all but sewn up a spot on the starting rotation in Detroit, and there’s really only one spot left up for grabs. Tata wants it, though he knows he doesn’t have much of a chance, realistically. He’s already slated to start in Toledo anyways, but he still goes through the motions. Maybe someone will get hurt-- someone _else_ this year, not Tata, hopefully-- and he’ll move up on the reliever food chain.

It doesn’t work out that way, though. Then again, does it ever? Any time Tata’s ever wanted something as bad as he wants a spot on Detroit’s relief corps-- he told himself he wasn’t going to think about _that_ anymore, but it still crops up from time to time-- something new comes up to throw him off stride. He keeps fucking his shoulder up, somehow, or he can’t seem to remember how to throw a strike, or he punches out a door and fucks up his hand, and someone else gets what should have been his. What’s _rightly_ his.

This time, it isn’t injury-- self-inflicted or otherwise-- that costs him a spot in the bullpen. It’s simple inefficiency and wildness. He throws the ball everywhere except over the plate, and he starts hearing whispers amongst the coaching staff that he’s lost it, that he’s as good as done.

His final appearance that spring, he gets hit around and he can’t even really bring himself to care. He walks a ton of guys, and he dutifully accepts the return throw from the catcher every time, but what he _really_ wants to do is hurl the ball into the stands, flip the world the bird, and walk out of the stadium.

After the game, Leyland heads over to his locker with slow, deliberate steps and Tata knows he’s done for.

“Come to my office with me,” he says, and Tata does appreciate that Leyland never cuts guys where the other players can see. One of the stodgy old scouts complained about that one day, early in Spring Training, wondered why Leyland didn’t do it in public to show all the guys who weren’t trying hard enough who’s boss, and Leyland said it was tasteless, gauche. That shut the old scout right up.

Leyland’s office is cool and austere, and if he didn’t know Leyland, Tata might assume the office was representative of the man himself. But it’s not. Leyland is warm, almost fatherly to the guys. It’s another thing Tata will miss once he’s not a Tiger anymore. Which will be in about two seconds.

Leyland sits behind his desk and drums his fingertips on a manila folder. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news,” he says.

Tata holds himself completely still in his seat and waits for the axe to fall.

“We’re gonna have to let you go, Jordan,” Leyland says, and he really looks like he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. “ ’s been a long, bumpy road, but you stuck it out. Longer’n most, actually.”

Tata nods slowly. He’s lost all feeling in his fingers, probably gone numb from the shock, even though he knew this was coming. “Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to say. “I kinda figured this was comin’.”

Leyland nods and twists his mouth into a thin smile. “Proud o’ you, for stickin’ it out,” he says, standing and extending a weathered hand to Tata. “Good luck, kid.”

Tata accepts Leyland’s hand, shakes. “Thanks, Jim.” He slips his hand away and pushes the chair away from Leyland’s desk. He takes a good look around him before heading to the door.

Leyland sits back behind his desk and reclines in his seat. He slips on a pair of reading glasses and rests his hands over his chest.

Tata turns back around and steps out.

-

Tata starts packing his things into a box after most everyone else has gone home. He’s never done _this_ kind of packing before, ’though. He’s packed things to move into a dorm, packed things to move into an apartment, to a new rung on the organizational ladder, but never this.

The clubhouse is mostly empty, but there are a few stragglers. A kid Tata doesn’t know so well wanders from the showers to his locker and back a few times, stark naked and dripping wet, before finally toweling off, dressing and leaving.

He’s alone and he kind of hates it. He’d kind of been hoping maybe Verlander would stick around long enough to say goodbye, or maybe one of the other guys he was actually friendly with would come over to wish him well, but no one does. That’s just how it goes, he guesses.

“Hey, Jordan?”

Tata looks up, dirty socks in hand. It’s the kid, Porcello. “Uh, hi. What’s up?”

“I heard about-- that they cut you,” Porcello says. He takes a few tentative steps forward, like he thinks Tata is a dangerous animal he should carefully navigate.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, dropping the socks in his cardboard box. “You heard right.”

Porcello comes over and joins Tata in front of his mostly empty locker. “Are you okay?”

It seems like a stupid question, and Tata opens his mouth, prepared to fire off a smart-ass response, but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth. It’s actually kind of a good question. He hadn’t thought about it, whether or not he was okay with being cut.

Tata reaches into his locker and grabs hold of one cleat. He tosses it in the box. “I don’t know,” he finally says.

Porcello nods to himself. “Where’ll you go?”

Tata shrugs one-shoulderedly, a habit he’d grown accustomed to after so many shoulder blow-outs over a short period of time. “Probably back home to Texas,” he says. “I got a girl in Texas too. I’ll spend time with her, I guess.”

“You won’t try and catch on with another team?” Porcello sounds surprised and Tata is surprised he sounds so surprised about Tata not looking for a new team.

“What team’d have me, Rick? I’m damaged goods.” Tata snorts bitterly.

“You’re not,” Porcello says, gently yet firmly. “You can get it back.”

“Okay, Pollyanna, whatever you say.” Tata glances at his locker. It’s pretty much barren now, save a few random scraps of paper and some used Dixie cups.

Porcello puts his hand on Tata’s shoulder, the one that’s given him all sorts of trouble, and squeezes lightly. “You’ll find a team.”

“Right,” Tata says, sounding doubtful. He looks at Porcello and reaches up to knock his hand away, but his brain aborts the mission. He lets his fingers rest over the back of Porcello’s hand briefly, before pulling away. Tata looks away. “Thanks. You know. For trying to cheer me up. It was a valiant attempt, at least.”

“I mean it,” Porcello says.

“I know you believe that.” Tata picks up the box and stands. Porcello stands with him and Tata tucks the box against his side. He holds out his hand to the kid. This will probably be the last time he ever sees him. “I really do appreciate it, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now. I dunno, maybe I _am_ kinda bummed about the whole thing after all.”

Porcello wraps his hand around Tata’s. “Good luck, Jordan. With life. With-- your girl. Baseball. Everything.” Porcello twitches slightly, like he meant to pull his hand away, but he doesn’t, and Tata keeps hold of him.

“You too, kid. You’re gonna do great, I bet.” 

“You really think so?” Porcello asks, dropping his arm to his side.

“Yeah. You-- you got something,” Tata says, rocking back on his heels a little bit. “I think the old scouts call it ‘moxie’.”

Porcello shakes his head and laughs. “All right. I guess I’ll see you around then?”

“Maybe. I dunno yet. I’m gonna head back home to Dallas, and then I guess I’ll go from there. I’ll definitely call you ’though,” Tata says.

Porcello smiles and Tata glances at his shoes. “Okay. Take care.” Porcello gives him a quick one-armed hug and Tata thumps him lightly on the back.

“You too.” Tata pulls back and leaves the clubhouse for the last time.

-

He doesn’t call him.

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to, it’s just that he’s, well, he’s bitter. Turns out, things don’t work out for Tata in Independent League baseball, either. He gets signed by a team in his own backyard, the Grand Prairie AirHogs, and it’s a glorious homecoming. He gets to pitch in front of his family every game, Lauren finally gets to come to all his games, and people actually give two shits about him.

He doesn’t pitch any better in Grand Prairie than he did in Detroit or Toledo or Lakeland, ’though, and after a couple months of struggling to get out guys who couldn’t cut it in the pros, Tata is released.

It would be sad if he weren’t already so fucking _over_ it all. His locker at QuikTrip Park is decorated with a glossy photo of Lauren, from her modeling days, and an AirHogs schedule. The less personal items in his locker, Tata had figured, the less personal items to remove when it inevitably didn’t work out for one reason or another.

Espy offers to take him out for drinks, get him smashed and then send him off with a hot chick for the night, but Tata politely declines. They had played together at a few stops on the road to Detroit, and they’d gotten to be pretty good friends before Espy was let go by the Tigers. Then they reconnected with Grand Prairie, and that was one of the reasons he had been looking forward to this. But it wasn’t to be either, like everything else Tata had ever wanted. 

He should be used to this now.

-

He’s standing over his washing machine, emptying the pockets of a pair of his jeans when he finds a piece of paper, folded into quarters. Tata opens it and flattens it out. It has a phone number scribbled on it in handwriting that is neither Tata’s nor his wife’s, so he figures it must be from a desperate groupie, girl probably slipped the number into his pocket while he wasn’t paying attention. Indy League groupies are even more pathetic than the ones he saw while pitching for Toledo and even Lakeland. 

Tata pulls out his phone and dials the number.

It rings a couple times before someone picks up, and a very male voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi. Whose number is this?” Tata asks, scrunching his forehead, confused. Maybe one of his teammates slipped him the number as a joke or something.

“Rick Porcello’s. But I’m not actually him, I’m his roomie, Ryan Perry,” the guy says.

Tata vaguely remembers Perry from his brief stint in Lakeland, after signing his deal following the draft. Big on motorcycles and tattoos, from what Tata can recall. “Oh, this is Jordan. Tata.”

“Tata?” Perry sounds like he’s thinking about this very hard, trying to place the name with a face and it’s just not coming to him.

Tata’s stomach sinks. Even Perry doesn’t remember him. “We, uh, pitched together last season,” Tata says, face burning with embarrassment and stung pride. “Just for a little bit.”

“Oh, right! Jordan, man, I remember you now,” Perry says. “How you doin’? You catch on anywhere?”

“Yeah. Sorta. I got cut a couple weeks ago,” Tata mumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “How ’bout you?”

“I’m up with the big club, man, me’n Ricky both. You didn’t hear?” Perry sounds almost incredulous.

“Nah. I-- I kinda stopped following after a while,” Tata says.

“The Tigers?”

“Baseball in general,” Tata says, quickly moving on to the next topic before Perry can ask why. “Is Rick around? I wanted to talk to him.”

“Oh, he’s right here-- oh, come on, just take the call, you little bitch.” Tata can hear muffled, angry noises in the background and what sounds like Perry trying to force the phone to Porcello’s ear. 

Oh, great. This is doing wonders for Tata’s self-confidence. He’s beginning to regret calling.

“If he doesn’t want to talk-- ” Tata begins, but Perry cuts him off.

“Fuck him, he’s gonna talk. He’s just being a bitch.”

“Look, it’s okay, I-- ”

“Hi, Jordan,” Porcello says, not exactly sounding pleased to be taking the phone call. “How are you doing?”

“I-- I guess I’m okay. You?” Tata kicks his heel at the floorboard and leans against the washing machine.

“I’m doing good. So, you said you were gonna call me and then you didn’t so I figured you probably died or something,” Porcello says, with false cheeriness that sounds out of place.

“Sorry. I-- I kinda couldn’t. You understand, right?” Tata knows it’s lame. He cringes as he says it. But somehow, he still hopes Porcello does understand.

“You lost my number? And then you just found it today while you were cleaning out your car or your coat pockets? Am I close?” Porcello asks.

“Kinda. But it’s more than that.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I thought we were friends, man.” Porcello sounds disappointed, like Tata had let him down in the worst way by flaking out and not calling him.

“We were,” Tata says.

Porcello sighs. “Yeah. I know. It’s just-- I don’t know, it’s _not_ okay because it’s a pretty shitty thing to do to a friend, just dropping them like that. But no hard feelings, I guess.” He pauses, and Tata waits for him to say something. “. . . Perry?”

Someone on the other end of the line coughs, and it has to be Perry. “Uh, yeah?”

“Get off the line.”

“Oh,” Perry says, “I didn’t realize you two were still chatting. I’ll just hang up now.” The other line clicks off.

“Sorry. He does that sometimes,” Porcello says, sighing again. “Anyways. Thanks for calling me.”

“Yeah. I guess I’ll-- probably not see you around, as I’m out of baseball,” Tata says, laughing humorlessly. “Take care, Rick.”

“You too, Jordan,” Porcello replies, and hangs up gently. 

Tata shuts his cell phone and flips it onto the washing machine with a loud, metallic _thunk_. Lauren wanders into the laundry room, hefting a wicker hamper in her arms.

“What’s the matter, baby?” She puts the hamper down and starts separating her whites from her darks.

“Nothin’,” Tata says quickly, a little too quickly. He squirms slightly under Lauren’s skeptical gaze.

“You don’t look like it was nothin’,” she says, pouring a cup of detergent into the washer. “Actually, you kinda look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Tata steps up behind her and wraps an arm around her waist. He presses a quick, guilty kiss to the back of her head. “ ’m fine, babe, swear.” Her hair smells like apples and he lets his eyes close, breathes in deeply.

Lauren reaches back and pats him on the arm, leans back into his chest a little bit. “Alright, well, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Lauren slips out from under his arm and picks up the basket, nudging the darks into a pile in front of the washing machine with her foot. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

She leans up on the tips of her toes and plants a kiss on his cheek before leaving, and he looks after her. Wonders how the hell he got so lucky and unlucky at the same time, finding his future wife and losing something equally as important, even if it was only a friendship, in the same year. 

-

It’s seven in the morning and the cobalt sky is gradually turning a lighter shade of blue, as the sun continues to make its way up from the horizon. Of course Tata’s wide awake, with Lauren snoring lightly at his elbow, face obscured by a wild nest of blonde hair.

Tata looks at her tenderly, before reaching out and brushing her hair off her forehead. Lauren snuffs quietly and rolls onto her side, her back to him.

He draws his knees up to his chest and sighs. He can’t stop thinking-- and that’s a very, _very_ bad thing. Porcello, damn kid, is back in his head again, but this time the mental projections are different, subtly shifted. He can’t stop hearing the disappointment laced with Porcello’s voice. The Porcello of his mind’s eye looks at him with resignation in his eyes. The lines at the corners of his mouth slope downwards, frown lines, rather than laugh lines. He wishes he could fix it, somehow, but he knows he can’t. There’s really no point in even trying to repair what he’d damaged, anyways, is there? 

It was just a friendship, a flimsy one at that, forged by baseball, and he’s not a part of that club anymore. He’s not a baseball player, he can’t relate, and baseball was all they ever had in common and all they could ever talk about. 

Tata glances at Lauren again, lets the presence of her anchor him-- to her, to their young marriage, to something real, something that isn’t Porcello. He touches her soft, silky blonde hair again and twines his fingers loosely in it. She doesn’t so much as stir.

Their relationship is so simple and _uncomplicated_ , his and Lauren’s. She loves him because he’s good to her, takes care of her and sees to it that she never wants for anything, and gets his slightly off-kilter sense of humor. They like the same TV shows and _some_ of the same bands, and, shallowly, he admits, they look good together, his dark and moody contrasting against her sunny blonde. They look like they were born to be together.

But then he tries to think about why he loves her, why he’s with her, and there are more questions than answers. And then sometimes his mind wanders, and he finds himself thinking about goddamn Porcello again.

The next time he glances at his alarm clock, it reads 10:45am. Tata buries himself under the covers with a groan and pulls a pillow over his head, as Lauren begins to stir and wake.

-

Tata goes back to school for business finance the fall of his first year without baseball. When he was at Oklahoma Wesleyan and then Sam Houston State, he hadn’t thought about his post-baseball life, what he’d be doing to bring in the money. He figured he’d be doing memorabilia signings, or commentating for a sports station. He thought maybe he’d be coaching or even managing once he was done playing. He hadn’t even bothered to finish his degree.

He was stupid. He didn’t take into account that his career in professional baseball could be no more than a blip, and he’d need a _real_ job in the _real_ world. The last time he had an honest to God nine-to-five job, he was a senior in college and he was working at Barnes  & Noble. That was six whole years ago.

Now it’s 2009, and he’s almost thirty, and he’s going back to school so that he can get a real job for the first time in his life. He and Lauren want to start a family, eventually, and they won’t be able to do that on the salary Lauren’s pulling at her job as a receptionist. She still gets occasional modeling gigs, but the assignments don’t come rolling in like they used to.

Tata looks at this opportunity as a fresh start, a second life. It’s hard, though, still thinking like a ballplayer when he isn’t one anymore. His first day of classes, he finds himself looking around at all the faces in the lecture hall and picking them apart the way a pitcher would. He feels strangely disoriented, which he finds kind of weird, because he’s _done_ the whole classroom thing before. 

Granted, it was almost ten years ago, and things were different-- _he_ was different. He was at the top of the world back then, his freshman year at Oklahoma Wesleyan. He was a hot shot. Tata could strut around campus and everyone knew who he was, everyone wanted a piece of him. It wasn’t much different after he transferred to Sam Houston State for his junior year, either. He was one of the best pitchers on the Bearkats’ staff, and everyone knew his name. He could walk into any bar within a twenty mile radius of Holleman Field and get a free beer.

Now, nobody recognizes him. Nobody comes up to him and says, “Hey, you were on that Tigers team, right? The one that went to the World Series?” Nobody strikes up a conversation with, “Weren’t you the Detroit Tigers’ organizational Pitcher of the Year in ’05?” Nobody remembers or recognizes him, and he kind of likes it. 

It really feels like a clean slate.

-

At some point, he stops thinking of himself as Tata, bold and black, embroidered over the number “53,” and he starts thinking of himself as Jordan, college student, business finance major, and husband to Lauren. He starts thinking of himself as Jessica’s kid brother and Chet and Christine’s youngest again, starts thinking of himself as more of-- well, more of a _person_ and less of a statistic, less of a name on a jersey or a website. 

When Lauren flips through channels and pauses too long on a baseball game, Jordan gently takes the remote from her hand and flips it to something else. If Jordan gets to the morning paper before she does, he excises the sports section and drops it in the trash can by the garage door.

He feels like he’s detoxing, or something. He starts seeing his being forced out of baseball due to injuries and lack of control kind of like going cold turkey, and he decides he should remove all potential temptations, lest he fall off the wagon. 

The first thing he does is pack his American League Championship ring in its velvet-lined mahogany box and put it in the garage, stashes it away where he knows he’ll never see it. Jordan finds the matted and framed article from his first career Major League victory, and he stuffs it at the back of his closet, behind a line of black and charcoal gray suits. Gone is all the evidence that said he once put on a Major League uniform for a living.

Lauren doesn’t really seem to get it, because until this point, she’s always known him as Jordan Tata, professional baseball player. She didn’t know him when he was working for peanuts at Barnes & Noble in college, barely pulling in minimum wage, dreaming of a big league career, dreaming of his name in lights. 

She pulls the sports section of the paper out of the trash, and leaves the TV on Baseball Tonight, and unearths his old gear from a cupboard in the laundry room and puts it on the washing machine for him to find. He catches her looking at him sometimes, with a thoughtful, sad look in her eyes.

Lauren seems to think he’s lost his way.

Jordan knows he’s found himself.

-

Jordan finds himself missing baseball at the most random moments. He thought he was getting over it slowly but surely, like a bad breakup, but then these pangs come when he’s least expecting it, and then he’s not so sure. 

One day, he’s chopping up onions over the sink and he picks one up in his hand. His fingers automatically start searching for stitches, before he catches himself. 

Another day, he’s in the backyard pulling up weeds, and he can hear the roar of a crowd coming from his neighbor’s open window. Almost immediately he’s transported back, and he can feel the dirt under his feet and hear the crowd all around him. 

Jordan sits back on his heels and wipes sweat off his forehead with the shoulder of his t-shirt, and lets himself miss it for just a little bit before tuning it out, and heading back inside.

  


**iv.**  


Jordan’s out of the sport for five months when he finally decides to get over his bitterness against baseball and his own body, and try to reconnect with some of his former teammates.

Verlander sounds happy enough to hear from him, tells him to come by when he’s in the area next (Richmond or Lakeland, he doesn’t say) but he doesn’t really sound that sincere about meeting up, and Zumaya prattles on about his new baby and Beatles: Rock Band, and Jordan really doesn’t care that Zumaya slaughtered both the “Tug of War” and “Score Duel” modes, and unlocked the special prize, thank you very much.

Larrison, who’d been one of his closest friends in Toledo, isn’t in baseball anymore either, so they don’t have much to talk about, and the conversation quickly becomes awkward. Granderson’s too much of a big-shot now to answer his phone, it goes right to a cheery, overly friendly voicemail and Jordan just hangs up.

He has nothing in common with any of his friends anymore, and he knows it’s all his fault. He was the one who pulled away after he got cut from the Indy League. He was the one who stopped returning calls, and avoided box scores in the papers and recaps on SportsCenter. If this was a “Fuck My Life,” he’d give himself a big, fat “you deserved that.”

Jordan scrolls through the names and numbers on his cell phone before coming to stop at “PORCELLO.” He wonders if he should call him, if Porcello would even pick up. He really wouldn’t be able to blame the kid if he screened out Jordan’s call. At this point, if Jordan were in Porcello’s shoes, he’s pretty sure he’d screen himself out too.

-

Jordan finally calls him a few weeks later and much to his surprise, Porcello picks up right away, answering cheerily. 

“Hey, it’s Rick, who’s this?”

“You stopped screening your phone calls, I take it?” Jordan jokes.

“Oh. Hey, Jordan,” Porcello says. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to see what you were up to,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He raps his knuckles on the Formica countertop.

“Baseball, what else? How ’bout you?” Porcello says.

“School, school and more school,” Jordan says. “I went to a Rangers game this week.”

“Uh, congrats, I guess?”

“Yeah. Anyway.” Jordan pushes away from the countertop and starts pacing. “You back in Jersey now?”

“Lakeland,” Porcello corrects him. “Working out a little. Hanging out with some of the guys who live down here.”

“Like Verlander?” Jordan asks.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around a couple times. You on your way out here or something?” Porcello asks.

“I was thinking about it,” Jordan says. “That wouldn’t be too weird, would it?”

“Why would it be weird?” Porcello sounds bored with their conversation already.

“I just-- I dunno,” Jordan stammers. “I guess it wouldn’t be.”

“It’ll only be weird if you’re gonna be like this,” Porcello says, with a quiet laugh.

“I promise I am _not_ this awkward in person,” Jordan says. He wedges his cell phone between his ear and shoulder, and begins fiddling with his wedding band. Reminds himself that nothing is going to happen if he _does_ go to Lakeland to hang out with Porcello. Reminds himself that he made a promise to Lauren.

“Dude, I’ve played with you,” Porcello says.

“Point.” Jordan smiles to himself.

“So I guess I’ll see you around then?”

“Probably, yeah.” Jordan knocks himself in the forehead with his knuckles. 

“Alright. I’ll see you then. Give me a call when you get in and maybe you and me and Perry can go out for drinks or something,” Porcello says.

“Okay. See ya around, Rick.” Jordan hangs up and rubs his hands over his face. He taps his wedding band against the edge of the countertop. “What the fuck am I doing,” he asks aloud.

Of course, he doesn’t get an answer.

  


**v.**  


Porcello and Perry are waiting for Jordan when he finally reaches the hotel the Porcello is staying at in Lakeland. He hadn’t been expecting Perry to be there, but he figures he shouldn’t be surprised. Those two live together. They’re probably fucking too.

“Hey, fellas,” Jordan says, walking up to them and slapping high fives.

“How’s married life treatin’ ya?” Perry asks, getting an arm around Jordan’s neck.

“Life is pretty good,” Jordan says, slapping Perry on the back. He glances at Porcello, offers him a smile. “Hey, Rick.”

Porcello nods back. “Hey. You hungry? There’s this cool little place called Columbia Restaurant, in Ybor City, that we could go to.”

“Alright, sure,” Jordan says. “Hope you guys know that I caught hell from the missus over this.”

“You’re gonna be in the doghouse,” Perry laughs.

“She’ll live.” Jordan loops his arms around Perry’s and Porcello’s necks. “Gentlemen, shall we?”

Porcello gives Jordan a pat on the back before slipping out from under his arm. “We shall.” 

-

They get back to the hotel late, around three in the morning, all three of them pretty thoroughly shitfaced. Porcello apparently can’t handle his alcohol-- he had, like four shots of tequila before he was falling out of his chair-- and Jordan and Perry are supporting his weight with their arms looped behind his back.

“Tommy used to work on the docks, union’s been on strike,” Porcello sings, jaggedly, voice cracking in a million different places.

“Oh, God, shut up. Please,” Perry groans into his side.

Jordan laughs and chimes in, “He’s down on his luck, it’s tough, so tough.”

“Christ. I’m the only sane one here,” Perry grumbles.

Porcello sings on, encouraged. “Gina works the diner all day! Working for her man, she brings home her pay for love, for love!”

Jordan slips his hand over Porcello’s chest. “She says we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got ’cause it doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not! We’ve got each other and that’s a lot. For love, we’ll give it a shot!”

Perry covers his face with his hand.

Jordan and Porcello lock eyes and grin. Jordan can feel something bubbling up inside him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol.

“ _Whooah_ , we’re half way there livin’ on a prayer! Take my hand and we’ll make it, I swear! Livin’ on a prayer!”

The hotel receptionist gives them an odd look, before returning to his computer. Perry puts his hands on Porcello’s shoulders and steers him toward the elevators.

“I hate you guys, I really hate you,” he mutters.

Jordan stumbles into Porcello’s shoulder and sends him crashing into Perry. “Sorry you ain’t as cool as us, man.”

“You’re _so_ not cool,” Perry says, righting Porcello and straightening his shirt.

“Says the uncool one,” Porcello giggles.

“If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.” Perry pushes the button for the elevator and steps back. “Man, I drank probably twice as much as botha you combined and I’m, like, completely sober. You guys are pathetic.”

“You were drinking _Bud Lights_ all night. That ain’t real beer,” Jordan wheedles.

“Whatever, man.”

The elevator doors ding open and the three of them pile in.

Porcello sags into Jordan and puts his head on his shoulder. “Man. All the light fixtures have halos,” he says.

Jordan looks up at the light fixtures and squints. “I know, right? Weird.”

The elevator reaches their floor and Perry leads the way down the hall to the room he and Porcello are sharing.

“We got a couple beds and a couch,” Perry says, pulling the key card out of his pocket. “I got dibs on the bed by the window. You two can fight over the other one. Loser gets the couch.”

Porcello twists against Jordan’s side and pokes him in the chest. “I really think I should get the bed, you know. ’Cause I’m taller.”

“Dude, I clearly, uh, out-height you by at least an inch,” Jordan scoffs.

“Whatever. I called dibs on the bed.” Porcello pushes past both Jordan and Perry and throws himself on the bed, spreadeagle.

Jordan sighs and eyes the lumpy couch next to the TV. “I think we should fight for it.”

“ ’m not fighting you,” Porcello calls out. 

“Only ’cause you know you’d lose,” Jordan says, feeling suddenly reckless. “How ’bout we arm-wrestle for it?”

Porcello raises his head. “Dude. Are you frickin’ serious?”

“Dead serious,” Jordan says, nodding grimly.

Perry props himself up in bed on his elbows. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those homoerotic Abercrombie & Fitch ads, is it?”

Jordan looks over at him. “What?” 

“Never mind, forget it.” Perry turns the light off, flops back down and pulls the covers over himself. “Have fun, boys.”

“I’m not gonna arm-wrestle you. I’ll share if you really want it that bad,” Porcello says.

Perry makes a muffled noise that sounds a lot like a laugh. Jordan glances quickly at Perry’s blanket covered form and then back at Porcello. “Rick, c’mon.”

Porcello waves a hand at him dismissively. “Didn’t think so. Whatever, man. Your loss.”

Jordan takes a few steps closer. “Whaddaya mean by that?”

Porcello sits up and looks right at him. “Well, whaddaya _think_ I mean?”

Jordan sinks onto the end of Porcello’s bed, and feels Porcello’s foot bump up against his side. “I dunno, I think you’re gonna have to explain it to me.”

Porcello sighs. “Man, this is unfair. _You’re_ the one with the-- the problem.”

“What problem?” Jordan asks.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t,” Jordan says.

“Dude, are you really that fucking _stupid_?” Porcello snaps the nightstand light back on and glares at him. “Seriously?”

Jordan crosses his arms over his chest and tries to posture, but mostly fails. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

“Okay then,” Porcello says, turning onto his side. He pulls a pillow under his head and closes his eyes. “G’night.”

Jordan sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “Goodnight.” He gets up and shuffles over to the couch.

Jordan climbs onto the couch and stares at the whipped-cream ceiling. A strange, heavy feeling settles over him like a smothering blanket, but it’s not exhaustion or anything. It’s something he can’t quite put his finger on. 

Jordan eventually falls asleep, and the following morning, he sneaks out before Perry and Porcello wake.

  
**vi.**  


Jordan doesn’t hop in his car and head home for Texas after he sneaks out of Porcello’s and Perry’s hotel room early the next morning. When he’d slipped out of their room, he actually _did_ plan on just hopping in his car and starting the long, lonely seventeen hour drive back to Austin.

But he’s still here. Everything in him is telling him he needs to get the hell out of there, but he can’t quite get his muscles to work in concordance with his brain.

Eventually he finds himself at the hotel lobby, and the doors are _right_ there. He could turn left and leave, put all of this behind him, but he just stands there instead like he thinks Porcello is going to come down and stop him.

Jordan shakes his head and rubs his hands through his hair.

A portly security guard behind a desk eyes him, deems him not much of a threat, and goes back to his Sudoku puzzle.

Jordan inches toward the doors, knowing it’s probably too late to do anything. He’d probably missed his opportunity _months_ ago. He glances back toward the elevators. 

But what if he’s wrong?

Jordan turns away from the revolving lobby doors and heads back for the elevators.

-

Jordan knocks on Porcello’s and Perry’s door and waits impatiently, fidgeting from foot to foot. He can hear somebody struggle with the doorknob, and after what seems like an hour-- but is actually only a handful of seconds-- the door finally opens. Porcello squints at him and cocks his head, scratching a hand under his t-shirt.

“What now,” he asks over a yawn. “We figured you’d be on the road by now.”

Jordan peers over Porcello’s shoulder and sees Perry in the other bed, still out like a light. “Uh, I kinda had something I needed to talk to you about,” Jordan says.

“Knock yourself out,” Porcello says.

“Could you come out here?”

“He’s sleeping, Jordan.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Jordan reaches for Porcello’s wrist, but he pulls his hand back.

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, and we’ll go from there,” Porcello sighs, tiredly.

Jordan glances about quickly, before forging on. “You probably figured this out months ago, but . . . I kinda had a thing for you when we were in Lakeland,” Jordan says, low, under his breath. Porcello has to lean forward to hear him. “I really liked you, but, I dunno. I just couldn’t-- couldn’t-- ”

“Get over yourself?” Porcello suggests helpfully.

Jordan wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I guess. Something like that. But, anyways. I thought you should know.”

Porcello nods, slowly. “Thanks for telling me, I guess,” he says, twisting his mouth into a thoughtful little half-smirk. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t figure it out after a week of A-Ball, but it’s the thought that counts.”

“You always knew,” Jordan says quietly, deflating a little bit.

“Yeah. You weren’t exactly subtle about the whole crush thing,” Porcello says. “Despite what you probably told yourself.”

“What gave it away?”

“Everything,” Porcello says, shaking his head. “You’d let your hand linger on my back sometimes. Or I’d catch you looking at me. Or being really obvious about _not_ looking at me.” He shrugs. “I just waited for you to say something, and then you didn’t.”

“Why didn’t _you_ say something?” Jordan asks, trying not to sound disappointed, as if he’d actually had a chance.

Porcello shifts his weight and folds his arms across his chest. “You were so obvious about it, I figured you’d say something about it when you were ready. But then you just kept _not_ saying anything and I just-- I guess I just figured you either got over it or I was wrong about you to begin with.”

Jordan smiles ruefully. “I didn’t. I kinda just buried it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Porcello says. He glances at Jordan, half-smiles at him. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to do that.”

“Me too.” Jordan coughs, turns it into a slightly awkward laugh. “So, there’s, like, _no_ chance it would’ve worked with the two of us, right? I was just barking up the wrong tree?”

Porcello purses his lips and tilts his head, consideringly. “Yeah,” he finally says with a little shake of his head, glancing at Jordan. His eyes seem deeper and sadder, for some reason. Jordan hates that it’s most likely his fault. “It never would’ve worked.”

“Thought that might be the case,” Jordan says, laughing to himself, feeling weirdly relieved. “At least it’s all out in the open now.”

“Yeah,” Porcello says, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“I guess I should be going,” Jordan says. “Take care, Rick.”

Porcello reaches out and touches Jordan’s shoulder gently. He offers Jordan a sliver of a smile. “You too, Jordan.”

Jordan does the same and gives Porcello’s shoulder a light squeeze before slipping his hand away.

Jordan hears the soft hiss and click of the door shutting and locking behind him.

He starts walking in the opposite direction.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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